


The Two Types of Vodka

by Andriech



Category: Star Trek: The Original Series
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-10-01
Updated: 2019-10-01
Packaged: 2020-11-08 17:48:09
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 10,454
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20839544
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Andriech/pseuds/Andriech
Summary: When the Captain gives him a special assignment, Lt. Chekov has suspicions about his motives.





	1. Chapter 1

He felt like an intruder. An odd feeling for the Captain of the ship to be experiencing, Kirk granted, but it was also the reason he never conducted surprise inspections. He moved into the security labs and paused as the door swished closed behind him. The workstations hummed with abandoned life, their soft tones and subtle lights toying with the idea of an owner’s return.

The labs and the Security Chief's office had been enlarged and moved here when they had been redesigned for the Enterprise’s refit. The layout of the workstations, interrogation rooms and brigs seemed more functional and orderly, although he couldn't vouch for it. Wall space was scattered with various equipment. Among them, orange-handled side arms that were secured in cases and fastened with warnings that they could only be used with express permission from the Security Chief. Light tag guns, Kirk noted, a smile tugging at his features. Implemented for practice drills, Chekov had found the security team using them to ambush each other constantly. From what he’d heard the signs had done no good.

Turning, the Captain moved left and into the Chief of Security's office. An onrush of stars hurled themselves at him through the viewscreen that consumed the full expanse of wall which faced him. In front of it sat a desk with a computer station on either side, allowing the Chief to both work and monitor other’s work simultaneously. The Captain touched his foot to what appeared to be a spartan couch fit into an alcove in the wall across from the desk. It was, in fact, two sickbay stretchers tucked beneath a one-way window looking out into the lab.

To the left of the desk a marine aquarium with strikingly beautiful fish and corals was sunk into the wall and surrounded by antique navigational instruments. The Chief's saber adorned the wall on the right amidst a myriad of bookshelves containing books, a stuffed Mickey Mouse and a brass samovar.

Kirk stepped through the door in the right wall and found himself in what appeared to be a grandiose sized bathroom. He noted the luxurious size shower and bathroom fixtures amidst walls lined with sunken cabinets. The floor space between fixtures seemed obscene for a space-going vessel, but it’s initial appearance was deceptive. The room actually served as the finest state-of-the art first-aid station in the fleet; Chekov and McCoy had seen to that.

Light flooded the office and spilled through his limbs into the bathroom. He turned as Chekov folded his form into the desk chair and activated one of the computers. The man regarded Kirk dimly as he adjusted the alarm system.

“You didn't think a strange presence in the Security Chief's office--of all places--would go unnoticed?”

Kirk shrugged and took a step into the office. "I hadn't a chance to see the renovations you made to the security labs when they refitted the ship. I thought it was about time."

Dark eyes regarded hazel ones dubiously. They had known each other too long for an excuse so thinly veiled to pass. "At seven a.m.?"

"You do calisthenics at six," Kirk observed dryly. "It certainly looks like a bathroom."

Chekov grinned sheepishly. "I spent too many years on a sailing ship to waste space on a single purpose room. He stood and moved over to the samovar on the shelf to brew tea while he continued. "I made the poor engineers pull the stretchers that make up that couch a dozen times over to make sure we couldn't reduce floor space."

Kirk raised his eyes to the ceiling of the alcove. "I'm still impressed that this becomes a gangway to the auxiliary bridge."

"Did you think I accepted this position and fought to move the labs here because I wanted a window office? Coffee?" he asked, pausing for Kirk's confirmation before he went out into the labs.

The Captain followed him as he made his way to an indentation in the wall against his office. "If I remember correctly, at the time you said something about not wanting to die," Kirk drawled.

A smile tugged at the Russian's features as he brewed coffee and created an assortment of danish. He remembered being a newly promoted Lieutenant observing the Security Team's drills as part of the ship's cross-training. He had never realized how close to death he had been all those years. Their ratings, of course, had achieved an acceptable level, but the work was shoddy and the teamwork non-existent-- in his opinion. "The Security Team's efficiency increased 98%,” was all he said.

"Yes," Kirk agreed. "And the injury rate is down 95%. I don't suppose there's an extra danish?" he asked as he accepted the coffee.

Chekov waved for him to help himself and then disappeared into his office. He re-emerged with a glass of tea in a metal holder and took a position against the wall by the lab doors. Kirk joined him as the first of the Security Team wandered in, saying hello as they passed the officers. The rest came in energetic bursts, pouncing on the lab and its workstations like felines. Strangely, they ignored the coffee and pastries and seemed to be inspecting the lab. Chekov watched their movements with critical eyes.

"Do you always provide coffee and donuts?"

Chekov nodded absently. "They all voluntarily work out with me every morning before their duty shift: it seems the least I can do."

One crewmember had ceased the frenetic activity of the rest and was standing staring at Chekov with a maniacal look in her eyes.

Chekov continued to chat with Kirk but it was obvious he never lost sight of the woman. Finally, she made her way around the closest workstation and firmly planted her feet in front of the Security Chief.

"Put your hands on your head and spread your legs, Sir," she ordered.

Dark eyes regarded her blandly in response.

"Now hold on," a lanky young man protested as he bounded up to them. "You’re just knocking about blindly, crewman."

A murmur of assent rippled through the room.

"Nordel," Chekov cautioned one of the two Ensigns assigned him. "We don't ridicule the honest efforts of one of our team members. We should give her the opportunity to explain the theory that prompts her actions."

The woman's blue eyes stared at him defiantly and she thrust her chin out. "The conditions of the exercise, Sir: one, it is in this room; two, don't start disassembling workstations, this is a daily exercise, we don’t get ridiculous; three, observations of changes in the room will lead to success.

"Every morning," she continued, "Lt. Chekov makes the coffee and danish, stands here and greets us, then disappears into his office. I maintain his presence is the change in the condition of the room this morning.”

"It’s a valid theory," Chekov confirmed with a note of respect in his tone. He handed his glass to Nordel, resolutely locked his hands behind his head, and edged his feet apart to submit to the woman’s search. She ran her hands over him quickly and yanked a long wooden stick out of his right boot. Grinning triumphantly, she held it aloft for the rest of the team to see.

"And she was right," the Security Chief pronounced as he relaxed.

"Foul!" one of the team members declared.

With a wicked smile, the Security Chief shrugged. “Met the conditions of the exercise.” He retrieved both his tea and the stick and said to the woman: “I'll be at your cabin at 1600, if that’s acceptable.”

“Yes, Sir.”

“Good.” With a final nod to the woman Chekov motioned for Kirk to follow him back into his office.

"Good heavens, it’s true," the Captain declared as the door slid shut behind him. “You clean the cabins of your team members!"

"It's the prize for the morning exercise. They love it.” Chekov replaced the stick on the front edge of his desk and moved over to freshen his tea. “You wouldn’t think they would, given what I find out about them from rifling through their things.”

With a sinister glint in his hazel eyes Kirk took the chair opposite the desk. “I doubt it’s occurred to them.”

“Let’s hope it doesn’t.”

Kirk chuckled and sucked the last of the sticky danish from his fingers. "It's not that I mind your unorthodox training methods," he said, "but could you give me notice of when you're planning your monthly game of hiding from them? I'd like to know when to expect the Security Team to be crawling all over the ship."

"Intruder training," Chekov identified as he sat down. "Certainly, Captain."

"What's the prize for that exercise?" Kirk wondered into his coffee cup.

The Lieutenant smirked. "A feather," he admitted, pointing out the replica of an American Indian headdress hanging in the corner. "After they realized the new Security Chief wasn’t trying to kill them with all his radical ideas, they decided the ‘Chief’ ought to have the trappings of his position. I gave them all headbands in return.” He scowled. “I don’t think they heard a word of my talk about the dangers of cultural stereotyping. Every one of them would rather earn a feather than a Starfleet medal.”

The Captain chuckled and leaned forward to grasp the wooden stick with the simply carved handle. He tossed it up in the air and caught it. "Mr. Chekov, please tell me that one of your ‘radical ideas’ doesn’t include using this club on the crew.”

“It’s not a club, it’s a belaying pin.”

Hesitating, Kirk gave the younger officer a sour look. “I know. It’s from a sailing ship. I’ve seen Errol Flynn, Lieutenant: they make a handy club.”

“I’ve never understood why the ship didn’t fall apart around them in those movies,” Chekov rasped with irritation. “That pin was used to tie off one of the lines that held up the yard I worked on when I was in the Russian Navy.”

The Captain hesitated and glanced sharply at the Security Chief. “What’s holding it now?”

Chekov’s eyes widened. “I don’t know,” he pronounced melodramatically after a minute.

Kirk stared at him but the man was unflappable. It was the Captain that smirked finally. “You didn’t steal this when you left the Navy, did you Chekov?”

“No. No,” the Lieutenant assured him with a wave. “The Captain gave it to me as a gift when I entered Starfleet Academy.” He frowned as he took a long draught of tea and muttered to himself: “I _should_ have stole it: it’s traditional to steal a piece of the ship you leave.”

“I’ll be sure to take an inventory when you transfer off the Enterprise, Mr. Chekov.”

Chekov laughed out loud. “When you leave the service,” he clarified with a cock-eyed grin. "It's an old sailing superstition. Once a sailor crosses the line-- equator-- their soul is owned by the sea and they can never leave it. They can try, but it will always pull them back.

“The only hope they have to escape it is to stay at least 90 miles from shore. They’re supposed to carry a piece of the last ship they served on with them because as long as no one knows what it is, they’re safe.”

Kirk balanced the belaying pin in the air between them. "You're not safe here: I knew what it was."

Chekov actually looked troubled by the thought. “Yes, well, you’re another sailor, so you don’t count,” he finally said.

Leaning forward, the Captain handed the pin to the younger man and observed: “I don’t believe my sail boats qualify me in the same class as actual seaman on traditional ships. They were small, modern ships with metal cleats: not wooden belaying pins.”

Chekov pressed his lips together tightly. “You don’t count,” he maintained.

Kirk sat back in his chair and took a moment to consider the dregs in his coffee cup. The current Russian Navy was no more than a living history museum. It had only recently been refounded to teach the maritime skills necessary to preserve and sail the traditional ships left before they were lost forever.

The Captain knew that Chekov had spent much of his teenage years on one of those sailing ships learning the skills. They had spoken of it, but the intensely private Lieutenant hadn’t shared many of the details even with Kirk–for who those ships held a fascination. The older man didn’t know if the ships were merely history classrooms or if a new generation of sailors were embracing the old ways. “Superstition was a big part of a sailor’s life,” he observed after a moment, casting his eyes up to watch Chekov’s reaction. “Do you believe all those old superstitions?”

There was a stillness in the dark eyes and he wrung the belaying pin in his hands. "I haven’t found it hurts to follow them," Chekov answered cryptically.

Kirk’s eyes widened. “Aren’t you supposed to have gold in your ear to prevent you from drowning?”

“I’m not in the water,” came the toneless reply.

“I see.” In fact, Kirk did see. He now understood Chekov’s habit of swimming at all kinds of ungodly hours in the night and wondered if anyone had ever caught him wearing an earring. Chekov may have been evasive about being superstitious, but as Kirk watched the man unconciously wringing the belaying pin in his hands, the Captain knew how unnerved the conversation was making him. "Have you ever had a problem reconciling your life in the navy with your career in Starfleet?"

Chekov’s hands stopped, gripping the wooden pin as his dark eyes considered the older man a long moment. "I don’t understand."

It didn’t surprise the Captain. The Lieutenant had spent all of the reasoning years of his life conspired to the restrictions of a military career. His natural adolescent rebellion had blossomed in a structured world which would have strangled most human spirits. Chekov’s unorthodox training and supervision methods, and his expert manipulations of the Fleet to get the Security Labs moved and re-built to his specifications were just the first visible results of the superb strategist mind his unique past had created. He’d been getting the world to work on his own terms his entire life.

Kirk set the empty coffee cup down on the desk. "Mr. Chekov," the Captain said. "I have an assignment especially suited for you."


	2. Chapter 2

The Captain surveyed the weathered structures that comprised the waterfront area as the salt-laced wind tore through his hair. "This must remind you of home," he commented.

Chekov's shifted slightly. "Reminds me of some of the places I've worked on restoring."

Kirk's eyes widened but there was no surprise in them. "You helped restore some of the seaports?"

"The main function of the Russian Navy is to preserve maritime history: what did you think the sailors do? If being a seaman wasn't such backbreaking work, I would never have joined Starfleet, Sir." He said it often as a joke to Sulu but he wondered now if there was not some grain of truth to it after all. Kirk couldn't have failed to notice that Chekov had never replaced his boots since he'd removed them to board the ships.

"I suppose I thought they sailed," the Captain admitted easily. "The initial survey is completed?"

Wide brown eyes studied Kirk a long moment. The Captain didn't need to be down here and the Security Chief had no illusion that the man was checking up on his work. "Yes, Sir," he answered dutifully. "They will begin the secondary survey tomorrow. The data and survey team's recommendations will be ready on time."

"Good." The Captain strolled a few steps own the wharf and cocked his head slightly, watching the sea birds dart lazily about the ship's timbers. "Strange that they take the same shapes on every planet," Kirk mulled aloud. "Ships, that is."

"The laws of physics are constant, Captain."

Kirk glanced at him quickly but didn't voice what caused the wry sparkle in the hazel depths of his eyes. "Yes, they are Lieutenant. How big do you suppose this ship is?"

"She's a bark," Chekov corrected tolerantly. "One hundred thirteen feet overall length, twenty seven feet beam amidships."

Kirk blinked dramatically at the younger man.

He shrugged. "I measured."

Flashing a charming smirk, the Captain quickly glossed over his own error. "Yes, well the other one is rigged as a ship."

"They're merchant vessels," Chekov elaborated. "The bark is a later design: built for greater speed."

"The shape of her hull," Kirk agreed. Then, with a sigh of wonderment, added: "You can trace a planet's entire history just by the developments in the ships they sent to sea."

" '_They mark our passage as a race of men_'. "

The older man nodded soberly. "John Maesfield had the soul of a sailor. '_All I ask is a tall ship and a star to steer her by'_. "

'_And the wheel's kick and the wind's song and the white sails shaking...' _Chekov's mind continued the stanza silently. _Why, _he wondered, _do people always come back to that poem and yet leave its grandeur unsaid? _"Ships do not simply trace a planet's history," Chekov maintained. "They dramatically shaped history."

"Ships from carried plague-infested rates all over the civilized world on Earth," Kirk noted instantly. "The massive reduction in the peasant population ended feudalism forever."

"Not in Russia."

A slight smile edged across the Captain's face and he paced several steps further down the pier. "No, Russia held on to their peasants, but the entire world grew through the trade provided by ships...silks and fabrics; spices, tea and coffee; gemstones, minerals and..."

"Slaves."

Kirk gave the Security Chief an exasperated scowl. "Chekov, the exchange of cultures that ships allowed..."

"The crusades, the inquisition, the decimation of native peoples throughout the world..."

"Lieutenant!"

Chekov had been expecting the Captain's exasperation with him. His gaze had been transfixed by the wild gleam in Kirk's hazel eyes as the older man spoke. He had seen that gleam in many people's eyes in his lifetime: the haunting shine that appeared whenever someone felt the touch of the ancient dreams. Through the passing eons of time those dreams had never gone away. They lingered about humanity, sheltered and guarded carefully by the elements of the sea. They waited patiently until the sea's gentle touch could remind one of humanity's place in the universe: could awaken the memories of those old dreams.

The ancient dreams glinted in all men's eyes when they came to the sea. It frightened some of them with its power but it was worse for those who had knowingly succumbed to it. It gripped the ones that were still bound with a force that couldn't be denied: with a union that shuddered in their very cells.

For humanity's cells were made up of the stuff of stars; they shared the same basic elements, the same foundation. The touch of the dreams guarded by the sea was much worse for the rare men who followed the stars. They knew that it was not the sea that had urged men out onto the water of their planets. It was the stars themselves that beckoned and the men that heard that call followed blindly, pushing so far onward that they had as least hurled themselves out into space itself when they had found a way.

For those people the touch of the dreams was not a gentle one. The gleam in their eyes had a character all its own. They could see it in each other, could recognize immediately another soul bound intimately into the fabric of the universe for reasons they had no control over. Kirk's eyes had that peculiar quality.

Chekov knew full well that James Kirk had visited this place before he'd given the Security Chief his assignment. The question was, Chekov now realized, what exactly was the assignment that he'd been given?

The Captain pursed his lips and asked: "Do you think a the Starfleet Corps of Engineers are going to be able to accommodate the atmospheric conditions that will be involved with putting a spaceport right on the water?"

"Captain," Chekov replied tonelessly. "It's the Starfleet Corps of Engineers."

Kirk hesitated, then screwed up his face in acquiescence. "I see what you mean. Still, with all this stuff gone they're still going to have to account for the water, tides, wind–the effects of the salt air on building materials. I don't envy them their task."

"Starfleet's preliminary plans for the spaceport are based on razing the waterfront area, Captain?" There wasn't much of a question in the Security Chief's voice. He simply knew it was futile not to play along with the older man's thinly disguised tack.

"Well, yes," Kirk replied immediately. "Bringing a place like this up to code and building around it would take a lot more effort than I'm sure they think it's worth. The planetary government wants to jump into their future as soon as possible."

"By destroying a living piece of their past."

A furtive glance at the Security Chief was at odds with Kirks's dismissive shrug. "It's just a bunch of old stones...and wood," he added, gesturing at the ships in front of him. "There's nothing alive here, Chekov."

"And the _Enterprise_ is just a bunch of metal and circuitry."

Kirk seemed ready to answer but only shifted his gaze back to the wooden ships in the end. Chekov hadn't expected an answer. It would have been impossible for the Captain to do so and maintain the disinterested tone he'd been affecting during their whole conversation.

Chekov moved up next to the older man, the old wood planking biting into the soles of his bare feet. He swept his eyes over the sailing ships and their surroundings again. "Imagine making a landing approach coming in over the ocean and these ships."

"That," the Captain observed in a wistful tone, "would be unparalleled. '_They mark our passage as a race of men, Earth will not see such ships as these again._' Maesfield was wrong," he said. "There were a few rough spots but, thanks to the programs of the Russian Navy, Earth will never be without her traditional sailing ships."

The countries of a United Earth had long since dissolved their independent armed forces. Just within the last generation, however, the Russian Federation had reestablished its Imperial Navy not as a military organization but a living history museum dedicated to preserving Earth's maritime and traditional folk histories. This program, run under the Ministry of Culture, was the one which Chekov had participated in before he entered the Academy.

"These ships..." Kirk continued as the wistfulness filled the hazel depths of his eyes. "They don't look like they're getting closer as they approach land. No...these ships seem to rise out of the ocean like a phoenix rising out of the ashes. I saw the Russian Navy sail the _Constitution_ into Baltimore Harbor a few years back. The experience was indescribable."

The _Enterprise_'s Security Chief was always profoundly amazed that her Captain's romanticism didn't get them all into more trouble than it did. "The _Constellation_ is in Baltimore, Maryland," he merely corrected.

"Oh yes, that's right," Kirk agreed quickly. "The _Constitution_ is in Boston, Massachusetts."

"Charleston, Massachusetts."

The Captain nodded. "The two are sister ships, built at the same time."

"The _Constitution_'s sister ship was destroyed. The current _Constellation_ was a replacement built in 18..."

"You can't resist!" Kirk interrupted in a rush, his wry smirk victorious. "You purposely screw up history facts all the time but you can't stand to let mistakes in maritime history go uncorrected. The Navy still has its hold on you, Chekov."

"I am still in the Russian Navy," the Security Chief reminded him tersely.

The Captain's eyes widened in a transparent feign of innocence. "That's right: you're on reserve status. When they reincorporated the Navy they forgot to write a provision to quit."

"That's what they said, Sir."

"Something you probably should have checked on before signing up," Kirk commented drolly. "Are you required to put in time for the Navy every year?"

"Yes, Sir."

"How..." the Captain ventured after a moment's hesitation, "do you manage to do that?"

Chekov eyed him warily and considered in depth that James Kirk could benefit from a refresher course in diplomatic subterfuge. "I'm not on duty twenty four hours a day, Captain."

"How do you reconcile working for two different fleets at the same time?"

"I'm Russian, Sir," he replied tonelessly.

"Yes, well..." Kirk stopped. "I don't understand."

"Russians know there are two kinds of vodka."

Sighing slightly, the Captain gave the younger man a rueful look. "Okay, Lieutenant: I'll bite. What are the two kinds of vodka?"

"Good, Sir–and very good."

Kirk looked perplexed, but not annoyed. "I'm afraid I still don't see how that applies."

Chekov finally let a sly smile brush over his lips and intoned:

" '_And now the old ships and their men are gone;_

_the new ships and new men, _

_many of them bearing the old, auspicious names,_

_have taken up their watch on the stern and impartial sea, _

_which offers no opportunities but to those who _

_know how to grasp them with a ready hand and _

_an undaunted heart_.'

"Joesph Conrad," he finished. "There are two kinds of vodka, Sir, but they're both good and it's all vodka in the end."

"You mean it doesn't matter what kind of ship it is," the Captain observed. "It's still a ship and the same dreams and stars that guide us."

"Yes, Sir."

Kirk pressed his lips together tightly and studied the Security Chief silently a long moment. "The traditional sailing ship is a testament to mankind's courage to take hold of his dreams and brave anything to make them come alive.'

Chekov regarded the man dubiously, but said nothing.

"We should never lose touch with where our dreams came from. These ships, this seaport area...they're who these people are: where they came from."

It was difficult not to point out that they seemed to have switched sides in their debate. "This is a Starfleet assignment, Captain. The engineer's plans are to raze the area and start fresh."

Kirk twitched and glanced furtively away. "Perhaps they need to change their plans."

Chekov folded his arms soberly across his chest and fixed a level stare on the older man.

A peculiar trace of guilt flickered through depths of the older man's eyes, but he merely said: "I have faith in your ability to do this job better than any of my other officers, Lieutenant: that's why I chose you. I know you'll find a way to get accomplished what needs to be done.

"Carry on."


	3. Chapter 3

Sometimes the most important orders could not be given. It was the nature of the bureaucracy which made up your life when you were consigned to military service. Having served in two fleets, under two captains, Chekov was more aware of that than most men.

He could still not help feeling ill-used at having been set up by James Kirk. It wasn't even a skillful set-up, he mulled irritably. Still, although his diplomacy skills were not his greatest gift, the Captain curiously had a way of getting what he wanted and Chekov knew damn well what Kirk wanted. He wanted these ships alive.

And the Captain had his own ideas on how to bring that end about.

That it could be accomplished at all was a huge presumption on Kirk's part. The only actual indication of the ships' conditions was borne in the fact that they were afloat. Had the ship's been in drydock their timbers would have succumbed beyond repair to dryrot and here, in the water, they would have been half submerged if their wooden hulls weren't mainly intact.

The Security Chief found that little consolation at the moment. He'd become used to dealing with the circuitry and metal that encompassed his world now. The ship he'd learned to command on was a 'flying can' as far as his former Navy captain was concerned. A true ship was made of wood, had a rudder, sails...

The snap of canvas made him jerk his head up sharply. Nordel winced weakly in apology from where he hung, as if his life depended on it, onto the lowest spar of the mainmast. Wouldn't even sprain his ankle if he fell from there... Chekov was more concerned about the damage the safety harness the man wore might incur in a fall: the things frightened him. He forced himself to remember how the independent sway of the ship and footropes, as well as the pull of the wind, could feel to someone unaccustomed to them. He gave the man a smile of encouragement. "Keep at it! You've got to be in control of that sail, not the other way around."

"Yes, Sir!"

"I can't believe you drafted Reilly into this," Sulu commented, his eyes on the group of people above them trying to tie the new sail against the wood as he approached Chekov's position at the quarterdeck rail.

"The Captain said I could use anyone I wanted for this assignment."

"But Reilly?"

The Security Chief chewed on the corner of his lip momentarily, watching the man working aloft next to Nordel. "When I went back aboard DeSalle said Reilly had 'learned' some new card tricks," he observed.

"Oh!" the Helmsman burst out with a laugh. "So it's a mercy mission on behalf of the crew. You know, someday Reilly may actually learn one of those tricks."

"Humph," Chekov muttered in annoyance. "More likely, he'll just add knot tying now."

Sulu's grin didn't waver. "Can't possibly be worse than having to sit through his failed card tricks, Chekov."

"No," the Security Chief sighed as he turned a critical eye on the make-shift crew . "I suppose not." He was already the only person aboard the Enterprise that managed to sit smiling through Reilly's repeated attempts at slight of hand. Undoubtedly the only navy veteran would also be the one primarily tormented by the man's newfound knot 'skills'. The Russian's perpetually friendly nature had its downside.

Chekov watched the people that were crawling over the ship's main deck with a growing sense of loss. With his reputation for unorthodox training methods firmly established he'd no trouble getting permission to work the Security Team on the ship. His team had long since come to expect the tasks given them by the head of their department to be odd and seemingly without purpose, so they didn't question it either.

Chekov now decided, with a truly Russian sense of fatalism, that the Fleet was probably going to take back the commendation he'd gotten for his inventive training. The people under his charge always set about learning and performing the odd tasks he gave them brilliantly. Now that they were on the sailing ship, however, the security force from the Enterprise had taken to casting him sour looks of betrayal anytime he came within eyesight.

It wasn't because he'd finally crossed the line from odd to absurd. (Although that thought had occurred to him more than once since they'd come aboard the wooden sailing ship.) They were glowering at him because they didn't need training to do most of the tasks aboard the ship. He'd already trained them. He'd worked them ceaselessly pulling on ropes with pulleys and weights until they'd realized it could only be done as a uniform, directed team. They'd pushed futilely against the resistance of impotent turnstiles until they did it as an unthinking unit.

Now, they knew. They knew that Lieutenant Chekov was neither inventive nor brilliant. He wasn't using methods that were new to the textbooks. He was just using an old textbook. His team building exercises were clearly age-old sailing ship tasks.

"Are you still pouting because the ship has backup engines and we're running under engine power?" Sulu demanded tartly.

"No. I'm picturing what the Captain is going to do to me when we can't get Mr. Scott off this ship." He shifted his gaze to the Helmsman. "Has he left the engines even once yet?"

Sulu shook his head. "No, and frankly I'm not sure what's keeping him from disassembling the things to study every nut and bolt."

The Security Chief shuddered visibly. "Without engines we'd actually have to sail this ship." Even under engine power getting the ship out to sea would have been impossible had the security crewmen not already been trained to function as a flawless, single unit. Even so, getting underway had seemed to be a bad parody of a Laurel and Hardy film. They scrambled in every direction as they tried to respond to barely understood barked orders: stumbling over each other, parts of the ship, and their own feet, until they finally settled as a group on what the order meant.

Sulu had offered his help by leaning on the ship's wheel and laughing heartily, the booming sound carrying past the ship and out over the water.

"Aren't you supposed to be steering?" Chekov scowled at him now.

"I taught Garrovick how. Oh, stop it!" the older man chided at his friend's look of horror. "He's just pointing us out over the open sea. It's not like we're under sail."

"If we run into anything and sink," the Security Chief declared self-righteously, "I'm coming back from the dead to see you court-martialed!"

"Right after yours."

"The planet is reviewing the recommendations from Starfleet," he responded far too quickly. "I am simply gathering all the information needed to support the evaluation."

The Helmsman nodded. "Yeah. Keep practicing that for the trial. Saving a tall ship is not what they expect in the plans for a state-of-the-art twenty third century space port."

"Some of the best things in life are the unexpected ones." It is what Kirk expects: only he can't order such a thing.

"You're crazy," Sulu pronounced somberly.

The Security Chief shrugged. "You're here."

"Yes, well, I'm apparently clinically insane too," the Helmsman replied, then added: "I'm surprised no one came chasing after us,"

There had been little commotion, or even interest, when they had cast off mooring lines and clumsily plodded into the sea that morning. Of course it had only been Starfleet personnel on the wharf at the time. The Planetary Government had plenty of time to notice and react since then, however, and there was still no sign of them on the horizon or in the air. He could not help but hope that it was a good thing but he had doubts that it was.

Where were they to go, after all? He could rationalize this was merely a training session for his Security Team but realistically he knew they all understood the same thing: he had stolen the government's property.

Chekov pulled up to the rail, his eyes drifting out over the water. The sea was slate, the sky a gray fog, and the horizon so close you could seemingly cast a line to it. The ship ran against a brisk wind and a rolling sea, a spray of protest crossing the rails. Fine sailing weather, Chekov considered irritably. Too bad we can't possibly sail this ship... "We're just making a short trip out and back," he finally observed aloud.

"Right," Sulu agreed with an amiable smile. "Just a three hour cruise."

"It's going to take us longer than..."

"Chekov, it's a joke."

"I don't understand."

"You don't want to," Reilly advised as he joined them. "We just have to find a way to keep our Chief Helmsman out of the video archives."

Eyes shifting to their new companion, the Helmsman choked reflexively.

"You could teach him some card tricks," Chekov suggested helpfully.

"I could!"

Sulu's glare shot right through the Irishman's head to pierce the Security Chief.

"The last sail is attached to it's thingy," Reilly added.

Chekov face twisted incredulously. "It's 'thingy' ? You mean it's yard?"

"Yeah, the...why's it called...it's way longer than... Can I go back to reimbursing the cracks between the wood?"

Chekov blinked painfully. "You mean 'paying the seams'."

"Yeah. That's what I said. I'm really getting the hang of it."

Another odd sound escaped Sulu.

"Reilly..." The Security Chief stopped, chewing on the corner of his lip again as he eyed the Lieutenant. He shifted, then cleared his throat. "Reilly," he asked, struggling to find the appropriate words. "You do know that the tar goes on the seams after you stuff them with the rags, right?"

The Lieutenant beamed. "Of course. I gave them all a real good coat to seal them."

Sulu burst out laughing finally. "How'd you manage to have any left for the ship, Kevin?"

Chekov glared at him but it only made the Helmsman laugh harder. Reilly had been doing an enthusiastic job of stuffing the leaking seams with rags and tarring them earlier, but he appeared to have been tarring himself as well. He's just missing the feathers... "You'd better not tell the ship's laundry that I had anything to do with the condition of that uniform, Reilly!"

The Lieutenant grinned enthusiastically. "This? This is nothing! You should see some of the things I've done to my uniforms!"

Which probably explains why his uniforms always look new. "No. No more tar," Chekov decreed. "We need to come about and start setting the sails. Gather everyone on the main deck."

"Yes!" The man was irritatingly chipper for someone who'd been working a sailing ship all morning, the Security Chief thought as he watched him bound off.

"Good Lord, Chekov," Sulu rasped. "Did you have to infect poor Reilly too?"

The younger man shook his head with a sigh. "Wasn't planning to. Some people are just born belonging to the sea. I'll have to alert the Navy recruiters."

"Now there's an interesting thought. Do they have decks of cards?"

Chekov scowled at him fiercely.

"Your idea," he muttered, luxuriously folding his arms across his chest. "Are you going to tell me what exactly you accomplished by driving this ship out and back again?"

"This ship is in remarkably good condition."

With a sigh, the older man said: "This ship is slated for demolition, and you know it."

"Yes," Chekov agreed. "But once they see her come in under sail they'll understand what they're losing."

The Helmsman stilled, an odd look of trepidation tracing across his features. "That's the second time you mentioned sails. Please tell me," he insisted, "that replacing the sails was just a training exercise. You're not actually planning to SAIL this ship are you?!"

"Absolutely not!" Chekov retorted indignantly. He squirmed uncomfortably under the other man's unwavering stare. "I mean yes... well... no... not really."

Sulu glowered at him.

"I am just going to go up and unfurl the ones we replaced, then have them braced to the wind enough to LOOK like we're sailing. I know this ship is in no condition to handle the strain of the sails...and this crew couldn't handle her!"

Dark eyes regarded his best friend bluntly a long moment. "So you're going to unfurl all the sails alone?"

"I know what I'm doing," Chekov reminded him, then gestured up at the loosely gathered sheets of canvas above their heads. "Besides, look at them: the sails aren't really furled. Do you want to help?" he asked brightly.

Sulu dropped his arms and snarled.

The younger man made an incongruous noise. "I wonder what would happen if it should ever get out that the finest pilot in the fleet is afraid of heights."

"I am NOT afraid of heights," Sulu retorted, glancing around furtively to see who was in earshot. "THAT," he bit out, jabbing a finger to call attention to the rigging above them. "Is just a bunch of moving rope and sticks!"

"I know we're probably going to end up three sheets to the wind," Chekov assured him, "but it'll get done eventually."

"I wish we were going to end up three sheets to the wind," the Helmsman declared.

"I have my orders."

"You were ordered to do this?"

"No."

Sulu scowled and moved up next to his friend, leaning in close. "Pavel," he muttered under his breath, "Is there a Star Fleet regulation that deals with an officer who obeys the orders of a man they know is out of his mind?"

"There are so many that are never used, who's to know?"

"I thought so."

The Security Chief's chocolate brown eyes filled with mournful wretchedness. "Mr. Sulu, please go take the wheel and turn the ship back toward the dock. I'm afraid Garrovick will capsize us."

"That little boy pout is not going to work when you're a captain," Sulu muttered sinisterly as he tramped off to obey.

A wicked grin swept over Chekov's face as he dropped down the companionway himself. It will with my Chief Helmsman.

"Crew assembled as per your order, Sir" Reilly reported dutifully as Chekov approached.

"Thank-you," the Security Chief acknowledged, then turned his attention to the group of Starfleet personnel gathered about the ship's main deck. "We're coming about and are going to head back to port now." He waited until the grumbles of disappointment died down before gesturing above their heads. "On our approach I am going to unfurl the canvas you just bent on and we're going to brace..." He stopped, hesitating a moment at the group's unified look of confusion. It was far easier to learn to speak a dozen languages than to translate between two: and the language of the sea was a decidedly strange one.

"I'm going to untie the sails you just put up and let them hang loose," Chekov worded carefully. "Then as a group we're going to turn each one of them so that the wind is blowing on its back side. We want the sails to have enough wind to fill them, but not enough to actually propel the ship forward to any noticeable degree. If we do this right it will look magnificent."

Nordel edged forward, his deep gray eyes intense. "And if we do it wrong, Sir?"

"If it is done wrong the force of the wind on the sails will probably tear apart the old rigging, the yards may come loose, and it is conceivable that the mast itself will break."

"And fall and kill us all," an anonymous voice observed. The sudden quiet that overtook the crew indicated they understood more about the difficulty of the maneuver than they cared to.

Reilly's green eyes darted from the group to their current CO. "How about some words of encouragement before we start?" he advised the younger officer.

"Yes," Chekov pronounced reassuringly. "Be thankful we only put sails on one mast. If it falls, it will only kill some of you."

Reilly's astonished look only fueled the roar of laughter from the Security Team around him. Grinning wickedly, the younger officer patted him on the back. "Breathe, Kevin," he admonished. "I'm not going to let anyone die.

"Wait here while I unfurl the sails," he added to the rest of the group. Chekov quickly swung up onto the shrouds and flew upward into the spider web of ropes and wood. He darted about above their heads, shaking one after another of the sails loose and hanging in precarious positions as he tested the lines attached to them.

"Holy hell," Reilly professed. "Chekov's part monkey!"

"You seem surprised," Nordel observed blandly as he cast his eyes up to watch his department head mount a backstay and plummet toward the main deck. "You have apparently never showered with him."

Chekov's bare feet met the deck amidst the sound of laughter. "We were just suggesting that Mr. Reilly start working out with us in the morning," Nordel advised him.

"Mr. Reilly has seen my chest," the Security Chief responded, non-pulsed. "Two teams," he ordered, gesturing to both sides of the ship. "Port and starboard watch as you were assigned."

Watching the Security Team try to secure the loose corners of the sails and turn them correctly into the wind was not a pretty sight, not by any means, Chekov thought morosely as they went about the task. Lines went slack, canvas careened out of control, yards jumped and yanked rope burns into hands: but it all eventually got to where it was supposed to go. He stood and surveyed their work with a critical eye before rewarding them with a simple nod of satisfaction. It set the assembled group to cheering.

"Mr. Reilly, Mr. Nordel," Chekov instructed. "Break out the first aid kits and see to everyone's needs."

"Not exactly neat precision," Sulu commented as he approached the wheel.

"With a ship full of inexperienced seamen it's more than I had the right to hope for. Can you keep the wind on the sails like it is?"

"As long as the wind doesn't change, we don't run out of fuel, and Scotty keeps those ancient engines from blowing up."

Chekov smiled in self-satisfaction. "Well, I wouldn't want you to get bored. Since there's so little challenge here I would like you to give Garrovick some actual training in steering a sailing ship."

"Are you sure?" the Helmsman asked as he glanced furtively over at the security guard.

It was easy for people to assume the brute of a man had a brain as thick as the muscles bulging out of his uniform shirt. The current Security Chief knew that nothing was further from the truth and he admittedly went out of his way to offer opportunities others might overlook. "I think Garrovick would really shine with a chance at the wheel under these conditions. Would I suggest it otherwise?"

"Fine," Sulu said. "But you can't court martial me if he runs us aground."

"Agreed."

Several hours later, Chekov bent himself over toward the ocean. "I told you so," he said to Sulu, who was clamoring about the spiderweb of ropes hanging over the head of the ship for some reason. The older man paused in what he was doing long enough to glance back up at Garrrovick standing at the wheel and the three sheets of canvas being tugged gently about by the wind.

"Yeah," he observed drolly. "And I should remind you that still I outrank you when this assignment is done."

"For the time being." Chekov commented absently as he eyed the man's movements quizzically. "Did you really want to use the head that badly? This ship has bathrooms, you know: and I would really hate to report to the Captain that THIS is how you died, Hikaru."

They burst out laughing simultaneously, the idea of describing to Kirk that his Chief Helmsman had been washed out to sea while trying to relieve himself too vivid an image for either of the boisterous men's imagination to resist seizing upon.

Climbing back over the rail, Sulu dropped his bare feet back on the deck. "I was just trying to see what name you painted on her. I didn't have a chance to check before we left."

The Security Chief squirmed visibly.

"Pavel Chekov," he blurted out incredulously. "You didn't!"

"I couldn't let her sail without one," Chekov retorted self-righteously, "And it seemed appropriate.

"I want you back at the wheel," he continued then, pointing at the expanse of sky stretching before them. "We have visitors approaching."

The older man turned and his gaze found the form skirting above the water towards them.

"We're coming into the channel," the Security Chief observed casually. "It's probably a pilot."

"That's wishful thinking." Sulu gave his friend a sidelong glance. "Pavel," he said. "I hope you put a lot of thought into the choices you've made in this command assignment."

The younger man's eyes were somber. "The wheel, Sulu."

As he left, the Security Chief drew closer to the rail and watched the growing form of the aerocruiser. What choices had he been given, in reality? The small ones were always there in any assignment. They were there in the daily task of living. The larger choices in life...the ones that mattered, Chekov had long known weren't left in the hands of the people they affected the most.

Perhaps it was Russian fatalism. Perhaps it was the result of having spent his life in the service of someone else's design. One fleet...another fleet...

Vodka.

Just vodka.

Chekov paced down to the main deck as the smaller ship approached, opening the rail and standing there as he waited for it to come to a halt beneath him.

"Mr. Chekov!" Kirk called up to him from amidst the group standing on the cruiser's open deck.

He smiled an amiable acknowledgment. "Yes, Sir." Still smiling, he shook his head tersely, barely, as the Captain went to reach for the ladder hanging against the sailing ship's side.

The Enterprise's commanding officer rested his hand on the rail of the cruiser in a smooth movement that appeared intentional. He turned and, saying something which could not be heard on the ship above, moved the people away that were standing closest to him.

The Security Chief stood poised for a moment at the open rail. Although the technologically advanced cruiser balanced on the air gracefully, the wooden ship was pitching and rolling in the churning sea she floated on. Only a person well practiced could have grabbed onto the ladder and boarded the sailing ship without making a preposterous, humiliating attempt of it. The same could have been said of anyone attempting the opposite.

As the ship rolled downward, Chekov dropped gracefully onto the cruiser below. The grace of his landing was something his gratitude by no means was lost on.

"Mr. Chekov," the Captain said in greeting again, but his hazel eyes were not on the man but sweeping over the ship looming behind him. "May I ask if you left any security personnel on my ship?"

The younger man shifted slightly, knowing without looking that Reilly, Nordel and the security team were lining the ship's rail at attention in silent support of their department head. It only took a quick movement of their Chief's dark eyes to dismiss them. "Yes, Sir," he replied to the Captain. "There are several security personnel aboard the Enterprise."

The man glanced sharply at him. "I trust you mean the one in orbit, Lieutenant."

"Yes, Sir," Chekov said. "Mr. Spock is currently overseeing security operations."

A rueful smile traced over Kirk's features. "I'm surprised you didn't draft Spock for your little jaunt as well."

"He gets seasick, Sir."

The Captain hesitated, his brow creasing. As was often the case with Chekov, the hazel eyes showed uncertainty whether to take the statement as humorous or not. He continued without voicing the thought. "Lieutenant," he said, turning to indicate the people standing on the cruiser's open deck with him. "These are the President and Vice President of the Planetary Council. This is Lieutenant Pavel Chekov, the Security Chief on the Enterprise and the officer in charge of the planetary survey team."

Both the man and woman that Chekov exchanged greetings with were several inches shorter than he. It told him that the average height of the natives of this planet was most likely shorter than for humans, and explained why working aloft on the sailing ship had seemed somewhat at odds to what his body remembered.

"Your team's recommendations were somewhat unexpected, Lieutenant," the President told him, curiosity in her lavender eyes.

The Security Chief nodded. "That is often the case when an outside review is done: it is why they are required by the Federation. We tend to stop seeing things which are a routine part of our environment."

"Even relatively big things," her companion declared, gesturing at the sailing ship beside them. "I must be truthful: when I read the recommendation to save these ships as historic artifacts and use them as museums, I believed the report to be irresponsible nonsense." He made a peculiar clicking noise. "Then when I saw this ship's sails rise out of the ocean... it was breathtaking."

"We didn't know they could still be sailed," the President added. "Your presentation was uniquely effective: very swaying."

"We have been operating her under engine power, President," Chekov corrected her respectfully. "The sails were only a test of her soundness. She will require a great deal of restoration before she can actually sail again."

"Captain Kirk has informed us there is an organization on Earth which can do the restoration needed."

Chekov's eyes darted at the Captain quickly but the perturbed look in them was gone before he met the President's gaze. "I'm sure there are people of your own who remember how to take care of these ships. The New Imperial Russian Navy will most likely be willing to oversee the project: helping you find your own craftsmen and training them in modern restoration and preservation methods."

The woman seemed mildly surprised by the information and gave it a moment's thought. "I had not considered the details involved, but it would be preferable for our planet to be in control of our own projects."

"That's why the Federation presents survey team recommendations," Kirk observed easily with a warm smile. "The decisions are left in the hands of the planetary governments.

"Mr. Chekov, I've told the Council that you'd be able to meet with them and discuss your team's recommendations. I trust that's acceptable to you?"

"Yes, Sir: of course."

The Vice President cut in quickly: "The Captain also tells us that this odd excursion is not unusual for you."

"Forgive me if I was presumptive in using the ship, Sir," Chekov replied. "The survey was done and it seemed the perfect opportunity for a team-building exercise. Traditional sailing ships can't be operated without exceptional teamwork."

"Your team building exercises do not usually involve permission from your Captain?" the President asked.

"Not usually," Chekov replied, deftly removing any responsibility from Kirk's shoulders. "As a Department Head he trusts me to train my staff as I see fit."

The lavender eyes showed what could only be judged as amused understanding. "Is that so?"

"Yes. I find that repetitive training leads to complacency: a serious problem in a security team. I am always keeping my eye out for unusual training opportunities, especially ones which reinforce teamwork."

"We'd like to see this training personally," the President informed the Security Chief. "Do you have any objection to our traveling the rest of the distance back with you?"

"You are certainly welcome to join us," Chekov agreed immediately. "I have determined that it's quite safe or we would not be out here. I'm afraid it will involve jumping down onto the quarter deck, but if you have your pilot position your cruiser over the front of the ship I am sure we can accomplish it with a minimum of difficulty."

"Thank you. I will convey your instructions."

The Enterprise's Captain stood immobile, watching as the planetary officials moved to the front of the cruiser. He waited until they were engrossed in a conversation with the pilot before he cast a furtive glance at the Security Chief standing next to him. "Lieutenant, am I to understand that the Commander in Chief of the Russian Navy won't be especially eager to oversee this operation?"

"You can't just decide on your own that the Russian Navy is going to branch out into the galaxy," Chekov maintained evenly. "From the deck of the sailing ship, the Earth is still a very large territory to be responsible for."

Kirk pursed his lips, studying the younger man in thought before his hazel eyes shifted to the looming presence of the sailing ship. "But this...it's vodka, Chekov," the Captain said with a smirk.

The Lieutenant gave him a sour look.

"Surely, he'll see the importance here."

"And just jump on the next transport to rush across the galaxy to save another planet's ships?"

"You don't think he will." James Kirk's shoulders sank slightly in disappointment.

"No," the Security Chief replied flatly. "He gets spacesick." He held up a hand to stop Kirk from protesting. "The New Imperial Russian Navy's objective has always bee to train every country to research and preserve their own history; to take care of their own ships. I'm sure the Commander In Chief can be convinced to send a crew to do this here."

Chekov deliberately folded his arms across his chest and flashed Kirk a thin smile. "And you'll have to tape the conversation with him when you try to convince him to do so, Jim. I can't wait to hear this."

The Security Chief kept his eyes on the computer monitor despite the careful footsteps he heard enter the room. He usually left the door to his office locked open, so the added presence wasn't unusual.

"I suppose I'm too late for danish today."

Picking up his tea glass, Chekov took a long drought out of it before adjusting the readout before him.

"I didn't actually come for breakfast," Kirk confessed.

The metal holder around the tea glass made a sharp sound as it made contact with the desk again.

"Pavel..." The Captain smiled ruefully and he moved further into the room. "You can't not talk to me forever."

The Security Chief turned his head finally: dark, unreadable eyes fixing Kirk with a steady glare. "No, but I am attempting to set a record."

The hazel eyes sparkled. "Did you?"

Chekov sighed slightly with exaggerated weariness. "This is only the second time you've ever been in my office, Captain. Considering the last time, I'm almost afraid to ask what brings you here this time."

"I came to apologize."

"Fine," came the flat reply. "It you'll excuse me, I have a lot of work to do in the next twelve hours."

Kirk fell silent a moment. "Done packing?" he asked amiably.

Chekov bristled, as if irritated by the senior officer's continued presence. "My yeoman is packing from a list I gave him. Is that all, Sir?"

A smile started over the Captain's face, but the older man chased it away. "Chekov," he insisted, "you got what you wanted."

The Lieutenant regarded him blandly. "You used me and got what you wanted, Sir."

Kirk hesitated, then gave a slight shrug of acceptance. "A good commander knows the particular talents of the people serving under him and utilizes those talents in the best interest of whatever mission presents itself.

"We both got what we wanted." He moved closer to the desk, his hands sedately behind his back. "Chekov, you saved those people's dreams."

"We saved two wooden sailing ships."

" 'Ships are the nearest things to dreams that human hands have ever made'," the older man quoted lyrically.

"Robert N. Rose," Chekov identified with a rueful look. "Jim, I sometimes worry about the breadth of your romanticism."

The Captain shrugged again in silent acknowledgment. "Pavel, you showed them how important the foundation of their dreams are: connected their past to their future. You saved their dreams," he repeated insistently.

The younger man stared at him blandly a moment, then his face twisted into a snarl. "This was all just an elaborate ploy to get rid of me for six weeks."

Kirk winced apologetically. "I didn't expect the Fleet to loan you to the Navy."

"I look horrible with a tan."

"I'll have McCoy send along gallons of UV block."

"My hair turns auburn," the man complained. "I'll come back looking like Reilly."

"I heard you got a promotion in the Navy," Kirk plodded on bravely.

A low-throated growl was his only response.

"You're going to be pulling two paychecks at once."

"Yes," Chekov agreed. "I'll be able to afford a very nice casket."

"I'm sorry," the Captain repeated sincerely. "I'd switch places with you if I could."

Finally, a smile edged its way across Chekov's features. "I know you would." The tone of his agreement made it sound like he felt sorry for the older man.

"I brought you and the Security Team something," the Captain continued, producing a box from behind his back. "I felt it was in order given the work that you all did above and beyond the call of duty...especially considering the satisfactory conclusion that it produced."

Eyeing Kirk's utterly self-satisfied expression, Chekov accepted the package warily.

"Go ahead," the Captain goaded him. "Go on and open it."

"It would look very bad if a package explodes in the Chief of Security's office, Sir."

"Would I...?" the older man caught himself. "I see what you mean. I wouldn't give you a bomb and stand here while you opened it, would I?"

Chekov's mouth twisted ruefully. "That depends on how determined you are to convince me you feel badly that I'm going to be stuck teaching seminars on wooden ship restoration."

"Pavel!"

Making a show of heaving an over-dramatic sigh of resignation, the Security Chief gingerly coaxed open the box's lid. He stilled, pressing his lips together tightly as he stared at the improbable contents.

A mere glimpse of Kirk's outlandish grin evaporated the younger man's self control. A wild, crooked grin split his face and he burst out laughing. "Whose 'unique talents' did you use to acquire these?" he asked as he held up one of the wildly colored feathers to the light.

"My own," the Captain beamed proudly.

"Jim!" Chekov burst out in alarm. "You didn't hunt those beautiful seabirds that were following the ship, did you?!"

"Of course not," Kirk retorted, straightening indignantly. "Scientists on the planet provided the feathers. I simply told the President we wanted to conduct some experiments on 'the constancy of the laws of physics in planetary differences of birds'."

The Captain grinned at the younger man's renewed laughter. "I made sure there were plenty to ensure there were enough to meet your...unique...needs."

"You need to present these," the Security Chief said as he pushed the box back toward Kirk. "This was your mission. There isn't anyone on the ship who doesn't know that: especially the Security Team."

"I'd be honored, Mr. Chekov. Thank-you."

Standing, the Lieutenant said: "I'll assemble the team for you."

Kirk picked up the box and settled it against his chest. He hesitated as Chekov came around the front of the desk. "Pavel..." he ventured. "Have you ever considered returning..."

The look in Security Chief's soulful brown eyes stopped him.

The Captain pursed his lips. "Pavel, which kind of vodka is the very good kind?"

An enigmatic smile traced softly over Chekov's features. He leaned in close to Kirk as he passed him.

"You tell me."


End file.
